


Fireworks Night

by downdeepinside



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fireworks, Fluff and Angst, I wasn't, John was in the war, M/M, Other, Post Reichenbach, Short, Slash/not depends how you look at it, so apologies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:11:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/downdeepinside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's fireworks night and John would rather not be alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fireworks Night

It’s fireworks night.

People have been celebrating all week, having their own private parties because so-and-so is away on the 5th, or because they’ve got an important meeting on the 6th that they need to be really awake for. Fireworks night isn't really just one night, is it? It’s just one day in a series of days where everyone has their own little thing going on. It’s my favourite of all the ridiculous holidays for many reasons. You’d be able to tell me all about them, wouldn't you? You probably clocked it some time last year when I stared out of the window like a young child or huddled up in my arm chair and just listened to the bangs. The constant, random bangs; and then sometimes the cheers. A communal ‘well done’ to some Chinese factory worker risking their lives daily for a bit of cash and a satisfying bang in England.

I suppose it’s my favourite holiday because it can be so personal and yet, at the same time, it’s completely the opposite. A group of friends can get together, drink some wine, and set off their own little show. But they can’t restrict who sees it. There’s no such thing as a ‘private’ fireworks show. Because it’s in the sky, and the sky belongs to all of us. You can see the colours, you can hear the bangs, and you can smell the gunpowder. It’s wonderful. The queen can pay a million pounds for the perfect private display- but I could still enjoy it, if I wanted to. And I would. No one would be able to stop me.

Then, there are the memories that come with fireworks night. Not just memories of previous November’s spent with family, or friends, or (of course) the occasional girlfriend- but memories of the army. Memories of the war. That might sound strange, that I enjoy a night that reminds me of the army, but it wasn't all that bad, was it? I never claimed it was. People just assume because of the nightmares and the scar on my left shoulder it must have been hell. But that’s bullshit, and you know that. Hell, I got tremors because I missed the war, not because I was there. 

The bangs don’t sound like bombs- not exactly. But they could do, if you really wanted them to. If you closed your eyes and tried hard enough, yeah, they could be bombs. They don’t come regularly; it’s pretty challenging to predict when each explosion will come. But when it does it sends something exciting through your entire body. The sound registers in your ears, and your brain, and then it travels down through your spine until it reaches the very ends of your toes. It’s just exciting. Though I suppose it’s much more pleasant when you know that the next explosion doesn't bring with it the possibility of certain death. 

So, it’s fireworks night, and I’m quite content (maybe even quite happy) sitting here alone with memories of different times and listening to the sound of other people’s togetherness.  
But I think that might be bullshit.

Because now fireworks remind me of you, too. They’re loud; they’re unpredictable; they’re bright; they’re wonderful; they’re amazing. And they have their ups and downs fireworks, don’t they? Or maybe I’m just being maudlin now. But that moment, when you’re waiting, and it feels like the gap between bangs has been just that moment too long, and you aren't so sure if it’s going to come at all. But then it does. And that’s the up, after the down. After the tense waiting, the darkness in the sky and the silence ringing in your ears, the firework always comes through. Well, almost always.  
Sometimes it doesn't. 

Sometimes you find yourself waiting and waiting and nothing happens, there’s no bang, no spark, and you find yourself left in the dark with a feeling that you just can’t quite identify in your stomach. Something like emptiness, but at the same time, something so much worse.

I’m definitely being too maudlin, but I suppose my point is clear.

It’s fireworks night, and god Sherlock do I miss you.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love a review and one of these days I'll post something that isn't sad and about Reichenbach, I promise.


End file.
